


Some, Better Than None

by maschh



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Arsenal FC, M/M, angsty angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6312367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maschh/pseuds/maschh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, when we can't get what we want, we have to settle for what's convenient. Originally posted on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some, Better Than None

In the end, Cesc chalks it up to luck. He's just unlucky. Sure, he's gotten to the highest level of football in the world, he's won a World Cup, he's the captain of an incredibly high-profile team. He has the most supportive family imaginable. But no matter what anyone tells him, he'll always think of himself as unlucky. Because how many people are cursed with such a gorgeous best friend that they can never have?  
  
Not many, he's come to think, as he sees more and more of the world. If any.  
  
It snuck up on him, Cesc concedes, remembering. When they played together on the youth teams, Piqué was the ugly duckling -- much taller than everyone else, skinny and yet to grow into his features. He was never self-conscious though; everyone liked him. If you hear Cesc tell it, Piqué was the funny one while he was the cute one. (To which Piqué always responds without fail, “No, I was the funny one and the cute one. You were cute once, what happened?”) They're just gentle ribs, but (for Cesc) they're easier than a lot of things.  
  
When Piqué plays with his earlobe, for instance, or when he decides to stretch with Cesc and not Andrés or Xabi. He gets these looks on his face, looks of pure pain at moments like that. Or when he disappears for hours with a girl and turns off his phone so Nuria won't call.  
  
“Sometimes I swear _you're_ after her,” he might joke when Cesc gives him shit for it.  
  
“He's making that face again,” Puyi will note from across the room, and Piqué will cock his head in confusion.  
  
Cesc will laugh a little and look down, his hands in his pockets. “Nah, I've got Carla,” he'll say, trying to remember the last time he even kissed her. But it's enough for Piqué, whose attention is already elsewhere.  
  
It's not that he's selfish, Cesc concedes. It's just something that he would never think of. All of the kisses, the hugs, the love taps – to him, they're all innocent. They are for Puyi, they are for Leo, and they are for Cesc. He may be a bit more affectionate than your average, but it's what makes him that much more likeable. No, he doesn't mean any harm, Cesc knows that for sure. It makes it all the more difficult to hate him.  
  
  
  
“You should hate him.”  
  
Robin knows this better than anybody. Robin, who knows all of his secrets.  
  
“I wish I could.” Cesc bites his lip. “It'd be easier.”  
  
The Dutchman shakes his head in understanding and changes the channel. Cesc buries his head in Robin's shoulder, groans in frustration. He tenses, so slightly it's almost imperceptible, but it's enough for Cesc to realize what he's doing and he stops himself, sits back against the pillow, chewing his thumb.  
  
“See if highlights are on,” he mumbles.  
  
Robin changes to Sky Sports obediently (knowingly). Then, as an afterthought, he swats away Cesc's hand from his face.  
  
“There's food if you're hungry,” he says, and Cesc makes a face like _thanks, Mom._ “Serie A,” he adds as the screen comes to life, knowing without looking that Cesc's grin has already faltered. “I heard they won, though.” He can barely hear himself say it. “Three-zero.” Cesc nods, determined to make this nonchalant.  
  
“I quite fancy Milan this season,” Cesc says after a while as they watch Ibrahimović blast a shot past the Fiorentina keeper.  
  
“Yeah, Zlatan's incredible.”  
  
“I hated playing against him,” Cesc says without thinking. He's talking about Arsenal played Barcelona earlier in the year.  
  
“I wish I'd played that game,” Robin says, and they both sigh, because they know neither one of them is thinking of highlights, like when Cesc knocked back that penalty (and then picked up an injury), or when Ibra scored his second. They're thinking of Piqué because they shouldn't. Robin knows Cesc is thinking of their much-photographed hug afterward. He humors the masochistic side of himself and remembers that moment – sitting on the bench watching the cameras flash on the two of them, and the instantaneous clench he'd felt in his stomach, followed by the wave of helplessness he's now long since accustomed to. Second best once again.  
  
Cesc is having trouble saying anything. He settles for sinking under the blankets and fluffing his pillow. The announcer comes back on the screen and Robin flicks off the TV without asking. He lays the remote on the nightstand and grabs a bit more of the blankets.  
  
“Turn off the light?” Cesc asks softly.  
  
Robin does so and stays turned around, unable to face him. He hears a light shuffling of sheets as the younger man no doubt does the same. The unused bed across the hotel room stares at him, begging: _Come over. Don't torture yourself like that._ Robin answers it belligerently. _I've done worse._  
  
“You know, if it makes you feel any better,” Robin begins, “I hate him.”  
  
Cesc bites back a smile, his eyes closed.  
  
"It does, actually."

 

At the beginning, Robin reminded him of Piqué. They were both lanky jokesters, they kept everyone else happy effortlessly. They were both cocky and loved to win. The resemblance wasn't uncanny, but it was there. Cesc is aware of this on some level, but he tries not to think about it. He's found he likes the illusion that his life doesn't revolve around his best friend.  
  
 _Well, he doesn't anymore,_ Cesc will defend himself at the times when that side of him isn't so easily convinced. And that much is true, at least. Robin is quicker to anger, not so much aggression but irritability. He seems to actually enjoy arguments, for instance, something that bothers Cesc to no end. Piqué is easygoing and the two of them have fought only once or twice in their entire friendship. If Cesc talks about Piqué for too long, Robin gets irritable and will change the subject with a surprising lack of subtlety.  
  
Because Robin is intelligent, in the way that Cesc and Piqué aren't, in the way that still makes Cesc shake his head and grin despite himself. He's so simply well-spoken that he almost doesn't even know it. He can talk about football and art and politics and can explain things like no one Cesc has ever known. If he had his way, Robin would be the captain and not just his vice – he's much more worthy than Cesc in every way.  
  
He's infinitely understanding, and Cesc often wishes he could be more like the Dutchman in that way. If he's injured or frustrated, or depressed or even if he just looks at him the wrong way, Robin is there. It means a lot when the other lads are younger than him (just babies, really) or just don't feel the need to look out for their captain (he's their _captain_ after all). He hopes his friend knows how much he appreciates him, but it's something he doubts.  
  
In fact, Robin is so understanding it pains Cesc to look at him sometimes. “Do whatever you need” is his favorite phrase. Cesc hates himself for having taken him up on that (for continuing to).  
  
  
  
He couldn't forget their beginning if he tried. It was the match against Chelsea two years ago. They weren't confident going in (well, Cesc wasn't. Robin was more confident than usual, making jokes, messing around at training, although of course that probably meant he was all the more nervous) and they were already a good ten points away from Liverpool at the top of the league. They were a goal down at half after Johan had let in an own goal.  
  
It's funny how little he remembers of actually playing, though. Most of it is faded, flickering at best, but the moments that do stick out are almost too clear. The offside goal that the ref ended up giving them – Robin was so happy about that, no one could tell him otherwise even when they watched his goal again and again that night. But the second one.  
  
Cesc flicked the ball up toward the goal, not his best cross, he remembers thinking in passing. But someone headed the ball down and all of a sudden Robin was slamming it into the net. Cesc didn't even know what hit him when Robin grabbed him around the waist, could only laugh and gasp for air as delirious streams of English and Dutch and Spanish? came rushing from his friend's lips.  
  
Robin put him down and looked at him and Cesc's heart jolted so strongly he would have fallen over if not for the mass of bodies surrounding them. To this day, he swears he'll never forget the look in Robin's eyes at that moment. In those dark eyes was this sense of longing, of lust, of admiration and adoration and respect. It scared him a little but it made his extremities tingle and he couldn't break the eye contact.  
  
Robin could, though it seemed like it took him years. He buried his face in Cesc's neck, just for a second, leaving wet ticklish traces of himself there. Cesc squirmed but smiled, unsure of what to do. Before he could decide, Robin was gone again. The game restarted much too quickly after that.  
  
  
  
Of course, it only took him an instant to realize it later, what had shocked and thrilled him so badly. He had seen his own eyes when he looked at Robin's, he'd seen how he'd been looking at Piqué for so long. It scared him. Ever since then, and especially during their long nights together in hotel rooms and at each other's apartments, when Cesc can't sleep, he wonders what Robin saw in his eyes that day.  
  
Whatever it was, he can only dream that Piqué might give him one of those looks. Even just for one night. Because although he knows it's twisted, and entirely his own doing, he's never envied Robin more.


End file.
